Sun in an Empty Room
by skyward.eyes
Summary: X- Men First Class. "Charles' fingers were dancing on the jacket, the shirt, the pants… The same fingers then danced on Erik's flesh also." Raven's POV. Oneshot.
1. Sun in an Empty Room

**Sun in an Empty Room**

Summary: "Charles' fingers were dancing on the jacket, the shirt, the pants… The same fingers then danced on Erik's flesh also." Raven's POV. Oneshot.

Disclaimer: I just own the plot.

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><p><strong>Sun in an Empty Room<strong>

When was the first time I realized it?

Probably it was that one night at the château, when Erik was talking to Charles. They were talking about Charles' master thesis. They were at the balcony, their silhouettes neat against the velvety purple sky. I remembered the sight of it very well, the sight of Erik in his leather jacket. The sight of him leaning more and more towards Charles, who was wearing his gray cashmere sweater. They talked. And talked. And talked. From the sight of it I would've believed if one of them told me that the next day the world is going to end.

I personally thought that the thesis itself was interesting, sure, but he was just theorizing. He was always like that: He theorized things. Whatever happened in the surface, or in the flesh of a mutant like himself, he turned into words. He would even add bits of poetry to reinforce the credibility. People thought him as smart, passionate, but it was me who knew that gorgeous secret of his. I wondered if Erik had realized that—by any means? Or it wouldn't matter at all. It was the sight of them together. I was curious. From here, from a spot several angles below the balcony, I would frown from time to time, trying to understand the no-distance world that they were staying in.

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><p>Sometimes I'd hear music. The faintest bits of them. Vintage American jazz, perhaps, or was it Django Reinhardt? I had never known about the latter before, if Erik hadn't told me. The reason he told me was because of Charles, too, because I asked him whether it was possible that he, Charles, liked other kinds of music other than his regular Haydn and Mozart. "Oh, he likes European jazz."<p>

His smile as he mentioned it was something I could never forget for a long time.

"Even all American jazz sounds the same to me," I said, "And now, _European_ jazz?"

"Yes," he said. A faint trace of smile was on his face, "When I was in Switzerland, they were crazy about Parisian street jazz. Django Reinhardt and Stéphane Graphelli, respectively. They are more gypsies with songs than musicians. Charles fell for their music the first time I lent him the LPs."

He was walking slowly next to me. I wished it would last. Longer than this talk, longer than this night… If only. Looking at his tall build next to me, his German face, more If Onlys sprung up in my consciousness.

"I wonder," I said, "You're not even here longer than I, but you've known a lot more about Charles than I do."

He said nothing.

He was really handsome, Erik. Even with such tight-lipped expression he was really handsome. Probably it was his dark-brown hair that framed his square jaws perfectly—or those deeply-carved eyes. He had such piercing sight that went well with sadness. He knew it well, sadness, the way he knew the 217468 in the back of his forearm. I looked at him. For a long time we exchanged sight. I couldn't touch his mind.

When he finally looked away, I knew I never could.

"We'll talk later." He said, patting on my shoulder.

I nodded.

"You're going back to the library?"

"Yes," he said, "Tell Charles I'm there, will you? He was sleeping when I left his room."

I imagined him returning to his blocks of French books in the library. The mental image of him reading scared me off at times. There was no person that seemed to me looking better with books than him, not even Charles. He was always so serious, Erik, the sight of his passionate face hurt me.

Something that hurt me even more was the last sentence:

He was sleeping when I left his room.

"When I left his room," I replied.

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><p>"Erik's at the library?"<p>

"Yes," I said.

"Thanks, Raven," Charles kissed me lightly on the forehead as always when something made him really glad. Most of the times he did kiss me that way, of course, but when there was something that made him really glad, the kiss felt different. His lips were warmer.

"I wonder," I said at his back, "What is it between you and Herr Lehnsherr that I haven't yet understand."

Charles turned around, although he made no attempt to step closer.

"We've been talking about his real power, Raven," he said with a smile, "The place between rage and serenity, that is, but Erik has problems in controlling his inner rage."

"This dishonesty is getting sweet, Charles."

"Do I have to read your mind?"

"Go on," I said. Then in the mind: _I wish I was the one who could read yours._

Charles smiled. I did the same, although it was more of a forced one.

"Erik's really handsome, is he not? Here I am reading your mind, Charles, and bet you this one is right."

He shrugged.

"Where is this thing going, Raven? You're not suspecting me of—"

"Go on, read my mind."

In the mind: _Having the same fondness as mine about Erik._

Charles smiled, but said nothing. We remained staring at each other for a long time. He had such gentle eyes. In the past those eyes had formed one of my If Onlys. He would never understand, Charles, even until today he didn't.

When he left, I was left with such gentle warmth.

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><p>It was the same night when I heard the clacking of their lips meeting each others. I was curious so I followed Charles to the library. It was never my favorite place, the library, with the yellowish light and piles of books. They always smelled like dust, but Charles had always told me that such smell was something precious, not something gained. The window was left half-open near the corridor. I wondered which one between the two that had been so careless. Were they in such a hurry to meet each other's lips they'd forgotten that between them and the outer world was just a sheer lace curtain away?<p>

I watched them as they inhaled each other's warmth.

Charles was on the ebony table. Erik was above him, as if telling me implicitely that he had owned Charles, bone and blood. I watched him, Erik, took out Charles' sweater, shirt, unbuckled his belt, pulled down the jeans off his thin legs… I watched them. I kept my eyes open. I was left breathless, surprised. I didn't know whether I was wishing that I was Charles that was possessed by Erik, or the other way around. I had dreamed to be possessed by Charles, but the first time I'd landed my eyes on Erik I knew that I wanted to be possessed by him, too. I couldn't: I transferred those silent affections towards Hank, who was as clueless as I was.

Erik took off his leather jacket, his black shirt… He was always wearing all black. He was like a book with the cover hidden behind a blank paper. Charles' fingers were dancing on the jacket, the shirt, the pants… The same fingers then danced on Erik's flesh also. His flesh so white. His movements were the ones with the best precisions, like the one he always did as he leafed through his books. I knew those fingers would never work on me with the same way—or that I had just realized that, I didn't know.

I held my breath. Their lips met. _Clack, clack_, the wet clacks so loud as if the glasses, too, had been broken. Charles smashed the table with his palms. Erik swept the books off of it so that he'd be free to move even more… My eyes hurt. Looking at them made me aware of the pain I'd since long left unsaid. Besides that pain I felt nothing else. I kept watching them, watching, until I felt as if I was immune to the sight.

Erik's fingers were long, very long, the fingers of a fine pianist. And the same fingers danced on Charles' naked chest, neck, then his fly… I had never seen his fly reacted to a touch in such intensity. I thought I was lost in the view already I had started imagining thing. But none of this was a dream.

The pain was hitting me right on the chest. I didn't know why I kept watching them. I was just torturing myself. The sound of their breaths filled the air. At this point I felt as if I was already in the same room with them, with them enjoying my presence.

Which one of them whom I'd wished I'd been?

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><p>In the morning, I asked Charles: "Which one is stronger: A concealed affection or an explicit one?"<p>

He stopped walking, looked at his shoes, then smiled. I wondered if that one was really a smile. If it was there, the smile, it was too faint.

"I'd say both have their own strengths and weaknesses, Raven, if an affection is concealed—Say, Raven, why are you asking me about this?"

I said nothing.

"Alright, here goes: If something is concealed the power would be lead to implode. That said: the strength is an internal one. In the other hand, if the same affection is to be directed externally—in your word: explicitely—the strength may be visible, clear to the others' eyes, but well…" He paused, as if trying to correct one or two logical connections between the two.

"Say, do I have to read your mind?" he asked me with a chuckle.

I said nothing. I didn't even smile.

"Alright, then… well, on second thought, probably the concealed one is way stronger, because implosions are well… most of the times, it is being multiplied by several internal factors. Now do I confuse you?"

"No," I said, "You're trying to confuse yourself. You always theorize. Theorize, theorize, then you start forgetting what you're really thinking about."

I looked up. The sky was cloudless. It was painted in such clear, boundless blue. Such perfect epitome of blue, the kind that I'd gladly took into the lungs as I breathed in.

Charles smiled.

"It seems that I really have to read your mind."

"Sure," I said, "You'll find nothing, because in my mind I don't have what you really want to think about."

"And this conversation heads to…?"

"I want a conclusion, Charles, which one is stronger?"

"I'd go with a concealed one."

I smiled. "You're a clever man, Charles."

Patting on his shoulders, I let him fall several steps behind. The sun's warmth was just right. The rays did burn my eyes, though, I couldn't look up for too long.

_You understand jazz. You read a lot. You understand complicated literatures, French, and whatever those sciences I could never even imagine to understand, but you're not good at hiding things. I guess that is kind of typical with clever men._

He read it. I felt it. I smiled.

I took a long breath, imagining the shade of blue in my lungs as I felt the cold wind brushing the inner sides of my nose gently.

"Don't sweat it, I know." I said, "Sometimes I wonder who I'd rather be: you or Erik. But then, I could always be one of you anytime I want it."

"Who's that you'd rather be?" he asked me as if unperturbed. He walked faster to catch up with me.

"Erik," I said, "That way I could learn to possess you, Charles, and that way you could learn not to feel responsible for my _blueness_, or me being your "sister". I thought things would turn out differently, until he came and took my place."

He smiled.

"If one day I change my mind and say that I'd rather be you, it's because Erik is such a handsome man—that's what any sane woman who could change shapes would tell you now and then. It's a part of fact."

"I always thought you're cleverer, far cleverer, than you think you are, Raven—I'm right."

"It is you who'd taught me to theorize." I said, "And you're not mad because I'd figured that out, out of all people?"

"One day they'll have to know, too."

Erik, who'd just finished his routine morning run, approached us with a towel around his neck. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt with loose jogging pants of the same color.

"I have to see Hank at the lab," I said, looking at them interchangeably, "Guess now it'll be just the both of you."

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><p>I went back to my room. I closed the sheer lace curtains to blur the sharp rays a bit. In the same warm shade I tried to remember the scene I'd seen last night, behind a sheer lace curtain. The scene I could never reach, the scene I'd never be a part of. I'd seen someone who I could never have, and he would never have me. I guess everything would be a bit distant from me now.<p>

I sat on the bed, looking at the sky through the curtains. I lied there for a long, long time, probably afternoon, and thought that I wasn't a part of the room. I was looking at an empty room with rays of the sun filtering through the curtains forming blurred white trapezes on the ceramic tiles.

Everything would be a bit distant from now on.

Strange that I didn't feel so bad about it anymore.

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><p><strong><em>Bromance<em>_ is back in trend! After quite a long wait after _Brokeback Mountain_, _300_, and _The Eagle_—I guess this is the time for McFassy!_**


	2. Extra Chapter  Le ciel lointain

**Le ciel lointain**

English:_ The Distant Sky; _Sun in an Empty Room: Erik's voice

**_For my kind readers who have added _Sun in an Empty Room_ to their story alerts: Here's a little bonus. _:-)**

Summary: Erik's voice, one-shot. "I was thinking of the scene in the rain all over again. Soon my mother's, father's face would appear in the mind, as if they were calling me again and again."

Disclaimer: I just own the plot.

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><p><strong> <strong>Le ciel lointain<strong> **

I WAS WITH CHARLES, at the balcony of his room, talking about his master thesis about mutations. "The topic is a brave area," he said, looking at me with a serious look on his face, "There are times when those people start telling me that I am either crazy or desperate. _ça fait mal._" He laughed, but then I knew that it was a concealed sentiment.

He was a dyed-in-the-wool perfectionist, Charles. He would work really hard then pretended as if he hadn't even set his mind to work that hard. He would come back to me with a relaxed expression on his face, as if unperturbed. He never looked angry, or disturbed, but then those were just the looks on his face. My point of view wasn't an expression of sentiment: It was something more like a _theory_ formed by looking at him. He would do anything, absolutely anything, to avoid being judged.

Django Reinhardt's rendition of "Night and Day" was playing in the background. The sky was dark it looked almost velvety, mysterious. I looked at him, bathed in scotch-colored light of the reading light by his bedside table. He was reading, reading, deep in his mind he was wondering what was that of his theory that had made him vulnerable to false judgments.

"You know," I said to break the silence, "Raven never thought you'd like this kind of music rather than your regular Haydn and Mozart."

He chuckled. His eyes were still on the book. He frowned a bit as he, probably, finished the last paragraph of the page, then looked at me with a smile.

"Even Haydn and Mozart could bore your ears sometimes."

Silence.

"Anyway, the best thing about this music is the imperfect recording," he said, altering the tide of the conversation. "Hear the slight voids, air scratches? They give the distant effect, as if we're hearing this thing from another dimension. Recordings are getting better, and alterations would get worse by time. So much for constant advancements in technology."

I smiled.

He closed the reference books, the thesis also, then stood up from the chair.

"You theorize all the time." I said.

"There would always be at least an explanation for everything."

"_Pas toujours, ça."_

He leaned closer towards me. I could feel the fabric of his gray cashmere sweater brushing the tips of my fingers. When he smiled, I knew I had made a right decision.

To had stayed.

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><p>WHEN RAVEN ASKED ME about the music she often heard as she walked the corridors, I told her about European jazz. She was perplexed with the answer. "Now you're telling me about <em>European<em> jazz?" she asked me as if I was speaking to her in a strange language.

"When I was in Switzerland, they were crazy about Parisian street jazz. Django Reinhardt and Stéphane Graphelli— more gypsies with songs than musicians. Charles fell for their music the first time I lent him the LPs."

She said nothing, just kept walking next to me. We were walking slowly, slowly as if the passage of time had rolled far slower than it used to be. She'd smile from time to time, although she was trying hard to keep it discreet.

"I wonder," I said, "You're not even here longer than I, but you've known a lot more about Charles than I do."

I said nothing. Then I looked at her, to look up for a possible answer I could've given without making her even more curious than she already was.

"You know," she continued, "You came right away then take my place." Then laughed, as if it was a bad joke. If she was to retell the entire story, I was a hundred per cent sure she would leave this part.

I looked away, to a random spot at the distance, to the edges of the wall near the ceiling.

"We'll talk later," I said, patting on her shoulder.

"You're going back to the library?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Tell Charles I'm there, will you? He was sleeping when I left his room."

Ever so slightly, she smiled. She was trying to keep it discreet again.

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><p>I WAS READING <em>L'EXILE ET LE ROYAUME<em> when he walked in. He opened the door then closed it without a noise, as if he was aware of my unwillingness to be disturbed. His hair was already neat, although he swept it back with his hand as he approached me. I looked at his eyes: the bluest eyes I'd seen my entire life. I tried to look back at the book, I couldn't. He kept looking at me, Charles, I realized that as we gazed at each other, this was a moment to last. To last for a long, long time.

"You're reading again, Erik. You always read… read too much." He said with a smile.

I said: I just don't want to be left behind, after all that had been striped away from me.

He was still smiling, Charles. He kept looking at me, I looked back. I tried to find an answer that would rage those calm blue eyes. I thought of the shade of the sea I used to like as a boy, the sight of it was no more, no more, because the sight of his eyes had replaced the calmness that once was.

I stood up from the chair without even had the book closed. I cupped his face then kissed him: a deep, passionate kiss. I thought he would try to react in a way I wouldn't like, because such kiss wasn't even proper, _pas même pour les européens_. When the kiss had ended he looked at me as if he was clueless, but that was before he held me by the shoulders then pulled me closer.

"Kiss me again."

I kissed him again. His small lips were warm, willing. I tasted his saliva as it entered my mouth. It was a far sweeter taste than mine, his saliva. Tasting such taste I suddenly thought of quitting smoking. I didn't even tell him that: he'd already know. He ran his hands on my back, brushing it lightly, trying to lift up the leather jacket I was wearing. I wouldn't let him. If that was a question on who should be leading who, here in this game, I'd rather be the one who lead. I'd rather possess him because if I ever let him, when the time came for me to let go of him, I would feel an attachment.

_Je n'aimerais pas les sentiments éxagerés._

He was willing. Willing, as I walked him to the ebony table. Willing, as I laid him there, as I swept the books off it. I undressed him: first his sweater, then shirt, belt, his old blue jeans. He was smiling at me. Smiling, as I worked my fingers on his bared torso, on his legs. His thing quickly responded to the touch. I had never seen such quick reaction. I took him as desiring me. Back then such emotion would rather be cleared from my mind, because the desire for love had been taken away from me the time the iron gates with barbed wire blocked the sight of my family. Funny, as I undressed myself, as I let him watched me undressing myself, I was thinking of the scene in the rain all over again. Soon my mother's, father's face would appear in the mind, as if they were calling me again and again. I let those emotions being poured on Charles, on this lovemaking. I let them float on this thin, although stifling air in the library.

I pressed myself against him. His warm body said only a thing: desire. Such clean, calm, transparent desire. I closed my eyes and let the instincts led. In the end I was the one being led, because the scene in the rain was in the mind, like a film with a scene put in repeat mode. When I suddenly stopped caressing him, he remained there on the table, looking confusedly at the ceiling.

"I have gone mad, Erik, I'm sorry." He said it in low voice.

_Nothing to be sorry about. _

I was left there, torn inside memories. The memories far yet close, the screams, the scene in the rain. If I hadn't bent the gates, would my mother be killed? The image of the coin flashed before my eyes as if I was seeing it right now. I wanted to kill. I wanted to kill and get rid of myself. Sometimes I would tell myself such things whenever I was alone.

He'd read and seen the entire images by now. I felt it. The first time I'd told him to stay away from my head, but I knew I would rather him read it all the time. The desires, the loss, the memories, the willingness to kill….

I kissed him again. I held him tight. If I ever let go I would return to those horrible scenes in the rain. He held me back, he was giving himself to me. He knew I'd rather possess him, he'd known it already. He smiled in such understanding.

"There is no rain," he whispered it in my ear. His breath was warm. The feel of it brushing my ears sent shudders to the end of my fingers, "Right now, there is no rain in sight. No rain, just flesh."

I have said I like the sounds of imperfections, he said to my mind, right now I am feeling the feel of them, the imperfections.

I smiled. I buried my face on his neck.

I breathed him in.

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><p><em><strong>A very short piece that I love the most… at least for now.<strong>_

_**thanks to **_**aurore**_** for correcting the title :-) **_


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